by C. I. Kemp
Thankfully, he hadn’t had any floater visitations since Jackson Square where, against the advice of the Parks lady and other onlookers, he’d refused medical treatment.
Robert had just turned right under the theatre’s triangular marquis when he saw them. They were a cluster of those round grey dots, floating at the leftmost outer banks of his vision, coalescing into an amorphous shape. At first it was small, no larger than a cat. He watched, too transfixed to react, as other dots flocked to, as it grew to the size of a small toddler. More dots, and it grew to the size of a large dog, then finally a full-grown adult. It floated west on second avenue and Robert could see that its movement would bring it in direct contact with a girl walking towards the theatre.
“Look out!” he shouted.
Heads turned, including the girl’s, looking in vain for some source of danger. She was a pretty girl in her early twenties, with shoulder-length brown hair, clad in a tan waist-length autumn jacket, form-fitting jeans, tucked into calf-length boots, and carrying a denim handbag.
The girl’s eyes met Robert’s and before she could respond, the shape superimposed itself upon her, as the other had upon the butterfly. In an instant, her attractive features were contorted in a grotesque display of anguish. She began to scream and more heads turned. Her legs collapsed from under her, her head struck the pavement, and blood began to puddle. Onlookers ran toward her, some kneeling by her side, trying in vain to curtail her thrashing limbs. She kept screaming, crying, convulsing, and her handbag flew out of her hands, its contents strewn along the sidewalk and into the street.
None of this registered on Robert. What he saw paralyzed him with a greater terror than the sight of this young girl in the throes of a fit that seemed to be shaking the life out of her.
He was watching the shape. That dark amoeboid shape which had enveloped the girl did not move on, like the shape that had engulfed the butterfly. Instead, it seemed to grow smaller and Robert realized, with a thrill of disgust and horror that the shape was being absorbed into the girl’s body!
Finally, it disappeared altogether. The girl’s seizure became less frenzied, and her face had darkened, as if someone had punched her repeatedly, turning it into one sprawling bruise.
For the second time that week, Robert heard the sounds of sirens approaching, followed by a screech of brakes, and men yelling, “Stand aside! Stand aside please!” Paramedics moved in with a gurney and Robert, unable to bear any more, turned away.
He was approaching the corner of East 11th Street when he heard someone shout, “Young man!” He kept walking until he felt a hand touch his shoulder and heard, “Young man, please wait!”
Robert turned and found himself facing a distinguished-looking gentleman, somewhere between middle-aged and elderly. The man was of medium height, with a full head of grey hair, and grey eyes which bore into Robert’s with a disconcerting intensity.
The man spoke. “You saw something back there, didn’t you?”
Robert shook his head. “No, no! I didn’t see… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do,” said the man in a conspiratorial whisper. “You tried to warn that girl. I think you saw the same thing I did.”
“You… you saw it? Saw them?”
The man nodded. “We need to talk.”
They continued walking north on East 11th Street. The man introduced himself as Walter Chambers. Robert, having gotten over his initial amazement at having found someone else who saw those floater-things, found him refreshingly easy to talk to.
Robert started by talking about how writing had always been his first love (his second, after meeting Jill); how he’d sold a story to a small online publisher, then another to a more prominent periodical, then several more; how he’d come into a sizeable trust fund which allowed him to quit his job, and take a year’s lease in a walk-up in the West Village, where he’d dedicate that year to his writing. Finally, he worked up the courage to confide how he’d been seeing these things he’d originally assumed were mere floaters, but now, knew them to be something far less benign, far more menacing.
Walter Chambers listened, never interrupting, often nodding. They paused at a red light and Chambers reached into an inner pocket of his overcoat. He pulled out a business card, and handed it to Robert. It had his name, address, and job title: Associate Professor of Physics at the New School.
“Until today, I believed that I was the only one who could see these beings,” Walter Chambers confided. “Then I saw how you reacted when that girl was about to be attacked. I think if we put our heads together, compare notes, we can come to some conclusions. Maybe even warn other people.”
Robert couldn’t believe he had met someone else who actually saw the same things he did. And not just any someone – a man with the credentials of Walter Chambers, Professor of Physics at the New School. It meant that he, Robert Brewster, even though he was seeing things that were there, but weren’t there, things that no one else was seeing, wasn’t going crazy. Walter Chambers, with his science background, had proven that. Credible, distinguished Walter Chambers, Professor of Physics at the New School, might even have an explanation for it.
The light changed to green, and they started walking again. “Tell you what, Robert,” Chambers said. “I have a class tonight, but I’ll be free after nine. You have my address. Why don’t you stop on over and we’ll talk further? I’m sure you have many questions; I know I do. Let’s see if we can’t come up with some answers between us?”
“Sure, Professor. I’ll be there.”
“Excellent. See you then.”
Robert Brewster and Walter Chambers parted, each having less than six hours to live.
Incident At The Mews
At 9:25 that night, Robert was standing before an iron fence enclosing an alleyway of town houses butting up against each other. Circa the 18th century, this type of alleyway, was known as a mews, a row of livestock stalls and coach houses, around a paved yard or a British street. In modern times, it was a row of fashionable dwellings with a cobbled walkway, not uncommon in the West Village.
Robert lifted the latch to the gate and entered the mews. His destination was in its center, the only townhouse with three stories. The uppermost one was adorned with a large bay window through which light spilled onto the cobblestones.
A good sign. The professor was at home.
Robert made his way to the front door, rang the doorbell and waited. No answer. Several seconds passed and Robert rang again. After an interval of several more seconds and no response, Robert knocked on the door, which swung open.
“Professor?” Robert called, stepping inside. He waited. No response “Professor?” Robert shouted again and stepped forward, his hand gliding against the wall, in search of a light switch. He found it, flicked it on. Two sconces lit up, providing dim lighting, but enough for Robert to make out the stairway in front of him. He made his way to the foot of the stairs and shouted a third time.
It was possible that Chambers hadn’t heard him; the man was no youngster, after all. Or maybe he was just in the can.
Or maybe...
This was the moment where, in countless horror films, the ditzy chick or dopey would-be hero faces his / her dramatic moment. He / she is at the threshold of the house where the axe-wielding serial killer / vengeful ghost lies in wait. And what does said ditz or dope do? Run the other way? Get out of there? Go for help? Perish the thought! Contrary to all logic of self-preservation, ditz or dope plunges forward to meet a bloody and predictable end. It was a plot contrivance Robert abhorred and would never allow a protagonist of his to do in any of his writings.
Which was why Robert Brewster had chosen that moment to do what common sense dictated. He would head the other way, leave the professor’s house and go for help from the nearest police officer. He turned, prepared to do just that, then stopped.
Through the open door of the townhouse, he saw them. Fully realized shapes, no longer minute floater-type th
ings, hovering in the mews, but fully realized man-sized shapes. They made their way to the doorway, into the foyer, coming closer, and Robert had no alternative but to back up, stumbling, and landing butt-first on the lowermost step of the stairwell.
The shapes advanced and Robert closed his eyes. He rubbed them violently and shook his head – gestures he had used sporadically to rid himself of these horrid visitations. When he opened his eyes, they were still there, but no longer pressing forward. Silent they were, but their message was as clear, as if it had been bellowed inches from his ear.
You want to leave? You have to go through us.
Robert backed his way up the stairs. The shapes began to advance again, always leaving space between themselves and him. He realized that they were herding him further into the house.
He reached the upper landing. Moonlight coming through two rectangular windows revealed a living room / study area. Blob-like and serpentine shapes oozed through the walls and rattan woven carpeting, obscuring the room’s couch, end tables, entertainment center, art objects, and knickknacks. They were floating up the stairway as well, looking like splotches from a lava lamp designed in a madhouse.
Robert’s eyes took in these features. What they did not see was his host.
“Professor!” he shouted, his hysteria echoing through the house.
The only way to go was up. The floater shapes were converging on him from every other direction.
He made his way up the stairs, onto the final landing.
It was a garret-like study area. There were bookcases on all sides, jammed with thick, formidable-looking tomes. At a desk strewn with papers and journals sat Professor Walter Chambers. His arms were at his side, his head was thrown back, his eyes were wide and staring, his mouth open in a grimace of surprise and anguish. His face was a sprawling bruise, almost blackened, more so than the girl’s.
“Professor?”
Robert took a step forward, then stopped.
From the dead man’s face and body, and through his clothes, tiny dot-like structures began to emerge. It was like watching someone sweat in fast motion, only instead of droplets of perspiration, the professor’s body was exuding dark spots which flocked to each, forming shapeless configurations, at first no larger than a cat, then a small toddler, a large dog, and finally a full-grown adult. They floated to the sides of the room, in front of the bookcases, where they were joined by their fellows coming up the stairs, through the walls, through the floors, no longer allowing space between Robert and themselves.
Their progress was slow, meticulous, and unstoppable. There was no doubt in Robert’s mind that if he stayed where he was, he would meet the same end as the butterfly, the girl, and the professor.
They had left him only one avenue of escape, only one option.
Robert took a running start then launched himself at the bay window overlooking the mews.
Closing Excerpt from Unsolved Mysteries, 3/24/11:
Since that night, more deaths have been attributed to the disease that claimed the lives of Debbie Del Vecchio earlier that day and Walter Chambers that evening. To date, health officials have declined comment.
What continues to capture the attention of investigators is that Robert Brewster was present when both the Del Vecchio girl and Professor Chambers were stricken. But did these events trigger Robert’s decision to end his own life in so violent and dramatic a fashion? And if so, what was the connection? These questions remain unanswered and Robert’s friends and family are unable to shed any light.
If you have information which may lead to a solution to the death of Robert Brewster, please dial the number or visit the website at the bottom of your screen.
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